Best Laid Plans

by Lauren Blakely

  “And I’m looking forward to swatting your ass.” I rub my hands together, then mime swatting.

  “My, my. Aren’t you eager?”

  I point a thumb at my chest. “Big fan of spanking.”

  “You are?” Her tone is drenched with curiosity.

  “Hell, yeah. If it’s done right, it should feel good for you too.”

  “I hope so,” she whispers, then ever so briefly she nibbles on one side of her lip, telling me that even though she’s never been spanked, she’s probably going to like it a hell of a lot.

  “What do you think about role-playing?” Her eyes are wide and eager as she tosses out the question.

  I think I’m already in love with her list. I’d like to give thanks to the heavens above that she’s a woman of books and learning, that she researched thoroughly and penned this most magnificent agenda. “What sort of role-playing do you have in mind?”

  She taps her chin. “I could pretend that my kitty cat is stuck in a tree and you could play fireman coming over to rescue my—”

  “Pussy?”

  A sheet of mortification slides over her face. “Gabe.”

  “Pussycat?”

  “Gabe!”

  “Fine, fine. Fluffy. I’ll rescue your Fluffy.”

  She swats me. “That’s not much better.”

  “Your furball?”

  She balls her hands and pretend punches me.

  I grab her fists and meet her gaze. “I think we need to add dirty talking to your list.”

  “Do we?” Her voice is a little breathy.

  “You need to be able to say pussy, cock, and dick. Can we get you there without you turning red?” Lightly, I run a finger down her cheek. Touching her feels a little illicit, but I figure I’m allowed some leeway, as this can’t be construed as kissing her.

  Clearly.

  And sadly.

  She turns away, lifts her chin, and whispers, “Pussy.”

  “Well done.”

  She squares her shoulders, preparing for a challenge. “Cock.”

  Mine rises to attention. “Look at that. You’re a natural.”

  She turns to meet my eyes, hers a little fiery. “Dick.”

  I whistle my approval. “You’re a master student at dirty words. All you have to do is say ‘Fuck me hard,’ and you’re going to pass this brief lesson with flying colors.”

  She parts her lips, then shakes her head, perhaps a little embarrassed now. “I’ll save that one for another time.”

  That saddens me, but all things considered, it’ll probably save me from hitting inappropriate levels of steel on the erection-o-meter. “Fuck me hard” is pretty much an iron-clad guarantee I’ll go off the arousal charts. I return to her list. “What sort of role-playing interests you?”

  “I have this scene in mind . . .”

  Scene. My ears like the sound of that. “Set the scene.”

  “I was seeing myself as a naughty housewife wearing an apron. Can you picture that? When her man comes home and she opens the door wearing only an apron?”

  I don’t stifle a groan this time. Instead, I let a rumble work its way up my chest and escape my mouth. “Aprons are hot as fuck, especially when there’s nothing under them.”

  “So you want me to open the door wearing heels and an apron with nothing underneath?”

  Now.

  Right now.

  Tomorrow.

  Every second.

  Because that image will be enough to feed an entire album of fantasies, and it can’t happen soon enough. “If that’s your fantasy, Arden, I would be happy to knock on the door. You think you’d like that?”

  A flicker of desire crosses her eyes. “I think so. That’s what I want to find out.”

  “Are you trying to figure out what men want, or are you trying to learn what drives you wild?”

  She licks her lips, stares down at the river. “Both,” she whispers, her voice a little bare, a little nervous.

  She lowers her head and adds Aprons to her list. She glances up at me almost shyly, and all I can think about is her opening the door in an apron that barely covers her breasts, one that exposes the curves of her ass.

  I peek at her list, so I don’t linger too long on the album of sexy apron images my brain has assembled for me like a playlist.

  And the next item isn’t any easier to handle.

  Striptease.

  I shovel a hand through my hair, gritting my teeth.

  This is going to be the toughest game of charades I’ve ever played. “How are you going to do that without removing any clothes?” I rasp out, and my voice practically catches on the grit in my throat.

  “Oh, don’t worry. This one is easy, actually, because we don’t have to touch. I thought maybe I could practice stripping down to a bra and panties.” She lowers her voice to a confessional whisper as my internal temperature rivals the surface of Mercury. “I’ve always wanted to do that. I’ve never had the chance.”

  I groan. “What kind of asshats have you been dating? Wait. Don’t answer that. I don’t want to hear about them. I want to hear about you.”

  “You do?”

  I cup her chin. “Listen to me. You need to be with someone who embraces all that you are. If you want to strip, you need to be with a man you can say that to. If you have no interest in doing a striptease, you need to feel free to say that as well. You need to be you in and out of the bedroom.”

  “I just want to figure out who that me is in the bedroom.”

  I want to thank her for letting me help. Because, nudity or not, this is a fucking gift.

  She twirls a strand of her blonde hair and inhales. “Would it make you uncomfortable if I stripped to my bra and panties?”

  No, that would make me rock fucking hard.

  I tap my chin as if seriously considering it. “No. I don’t believe that would make me uncomfortable at all,” I somehow say with a straight face—and a straight dick too. Pointing straight up at the fucking sky.

  “Good.” She checks that item on her list then chuckles.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I was just remembering this time a customer asked me for a recommendation for a wine to go with the new Reese Witherspoon book club pick. Then she asked me what drink went with JoJo Moyes. Finally, she said, all offhand and casual, ‘And what do you think goes with a striptease?’”

  I laugh. “Very clever. She was trying to hide her true request. And what did you tell her?”

  She raises a brow, her eyes twinkling. “A sparkling white, of course.”

  The way she says it, a little flirty, a little playful, tells me Arden is definitely game for stripping and, it seems, game for this whole damn experience.

  “What else is on that little treasure map?” I peer at the list and spot the next item. “Whoa. Sex in an elevator?”

  I definitely don’t want to mime that.

  “Sorry, that’s misleading. I wrote that down as something to do in the future. It could be kissing in an elevator. But look, you don’t actually have to give me a kiss. That’s totally unfair to ask. We can do that thing where maybe you push me against the wall, grab my wrists, and lift them over my head?” Her voice is a little husky, a little smoky, and that sound tells me she likes the idea more than a little.

  That’s why “treasure map” is precisely right—this is the path to all her secret desires. Even if we’re not acting them out all the way, maybe this list will guide me to winning her all the way over.

  I tap the paper. “If we do that thing where I push you against the wall, grab your wrists, and lift them above your head, you really should be kissed into blissful oblivion.”

  I let my gaze linger on her, cataloging her reaction, the way a little murmur seems to escape her lips and how her eyes dance. “Blissful oblivion sounds nice.”

  I swipe a strand of hair off her neck. “You should feel blissful oblivion.”

  “I should?”

  “Do you know what it feels like?
To have sex so good you get lost in it?” My body vibrates with lust, and I clench my fists to remind myself not to touch her.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I bet you’d look stunning in that state.”

  Her lips part the slightest bit, like an invitation. “Would I?”

  Our gazes lock. “You would.”

  She casts her eyes down, kicks her toes in the water, and gazes downstream, perhaps clearing her thoughts too.

  Needing to cool down, I cut the tension. “If I’m understanding this correctly, you’re enlisting me to do sex charades for a week?”

  Her laughter fills the night air. “Sure, we’ll be mimes.”

  “Sex mimes.” I shake my head in disbelief. “I just signed up to be a sex mime for seven days. Next thing I know, you’re going to tell me you require dry-humping services.”

  Her eyes widen, flickering with excitement that’s dangerously attractive. “Is that something you want to do?”

  Yes and no and yes. I don’t want to dry hump her. I want to fuck her for real. I want to tear her clothes off and get inside her. But dry humping isn’t child’s play. It can be crazy hot if it’s done right.

  “It’s not my list, honey.” I scan the paper, pointing at Talk openly about sex. “I'd say we’re pretty much already checking off that one.”

  She smiles. “It seems we are. Gold star?”

  “Gold star and an A-plus.” I check out the final items, stopping at one in particular. “That’s bold.”

  Mutual masturbation.

  She answers at the speed of light. “Again, that’s one for me for later. This is only a wish list.”

  Yeah, all my wishes.

  I nudge her with my elbow, raise an eyebrow salaciously. “I would say that’s the very definition of a wish list.”

  She laughs nervously, her pen slicing across the page, crossing it out. “I should cross that off.”

  I wrap my hand around the pen and ask gently, “Have you ever?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Do you want to?”

  She looks up at me. “Do I?”

  “Do you?”

  “Is it hot?”

  “So fucking hot.”

  Her voice is breathy. “It sounds hot.”

  “Let me know if you change your mind.”

  “I will.”

  It requires a moment, maybe several, but I tear my gaze away from her, returning to the list. “Hmm. We’re missing something.”

  “We are?”

  “There’s an item that ought to be on here.” I tell her what it is.

  She beams as if I’ve just revealed that I planted a tree that grows money and diamonds in her backyard. “Yes, that’s a great idea.”

  She grabs her pen and adds it to the list. “In fact, do you want to do that tomorrow?”

  “It’s a date.”

  And in some ways, I suppose it is. And perhaps I’ve achieved what I set out to do tonight—snag a date with my favorite person. We’re taking a detour, but I’m game to see where this unexpected fork in the road leads.

  17

  Arden

  It’s the crack of dawn.

  The sun blasts brightly through the windows, and I trudge to the door to answer the knock, rubbing my eyes, still bleary with sleep.

  Perri and Vanessa stand on my porch, freshly scrubbed, with matching ponytails. Morning witches.

  Perri parks her hands on her hips and stares down her nose at me. “Hello? Did you forget it's Morning Pilates day?"

  I groan. “Otherwise known as International Torture Day. Tell me again why Pilates exists?”

  Vanessa stands next to her, head cocked, wagging her finger at me. She pokes my belly. “If you think Pilates is torture, you should try a Zumba class.”

  I shudder. “Even the name is terrifying,”

  “Pilates is good for you. It helps me chase down bad guys in a single bound,” Perri says.

  I shake my head. “Grapefruit is good for you too, but I’m not scarfing down that citrus at six a.m. on a Sunday.”

  Vanessa points at me. “That’s the irony of your grumbly face. You don’t hate exercise. You just hate mornings.”

  “Call me Garfield,” I grumble. “Seriously, why do you insist on morning exercise? And if you do, why aren’t we taking a class in sleep? I heard there’s a gym that offers a class in napping."

  Perri stares at me with saucer-wide eyes. “Please tell me that’s not a thing.”

  Vanessa chimes in. “I’ve heard that too. It’s like a class for new parents who are really tired and don't have a chance to nap. They go to a gym and get sleep masks and cozy beds, and they nap in a class.”

  Perri scoffs. “That is the height of a first-world offering. It’s like taking a class in cuddling. Or hugging.”

  Vanessa shakes her head. “Disagree. Have you ever hugged someone who didn’t know how to hug? It can be very unpleasant. Vise-like, clammy, or flaccid hugs should be outlawed.”

  “No, the word ‘flaccid’ should be outlawed,” I offer, gesturing for them to come inside.

  “You hate the word ‘flaccid’?” Perri asks as I shut the door behind them.

  “I hate the idea of flaccid. So the word might as well go away too. Am I right or am I right?”

  “Darling, don’t we all want to eliminate flaccidness from the world,” Vanessa says, and I offer a palm to high-five.

  Vanessa smacks back, and so does Perri. Then my redhead friend grabs my arms, spins me around, and points me upstairs. “Go get your sexy little yoga pants on, Garfield. It’s Pilates or bust, and no nap for you.”

  Harrumphing loudly for effect, I head upstairs, splash some cold water on my face, then yank my hair back in a tight ponytail. I stare at my reflection, and a devilish little smirk appears on my face as I recall last night. It was crazy, maybe even daring to ask Gabe for guidance. Yet it worked. It truly seemed helpful to chat with him.

  I already feel more informed and a little more empowered. I’m excited about seeing him today for our mission.

  So excited it gives me a huge blast of energy—something I didn’t expect to feel at the torturous hour of six in the morning. I make a quick change into workout clothes and return downstairs with a peppy smile. “Okay, let's go, girls.”

  “Whoa. Did you have a personality transplant with a happy puppy upstairs?”

  “Can’t a girl be full of energy in the morning?” I ask as we leave my house and walk to the Pilates studio in the middle of town.

  “Not you. You look like you have a dirty little secret. Did you have a man hidden away in your bathroom who gave you a quickie while we waited down below?”

  “Please.” I glance around, then lower my voice to a whisper. “But I did decide to take the bull by the horns.”

  Vanessa mimes riding a bull. “Tell me more, cowgirl.”

  “Yes, that exactly. Reverse cowgirl. Well, sort of. I’m going to experiment a little. Learn some more about what I might like.” I don’t keep secrets from Perri and Vanessa, dirty or otherwise. These ladies are like sisters. I’m an only child, but we grew up together, and I’ve known them my whole life. My best friends are my family.

  “I’ve decided I’m done with being too vanilla. I asked Gabe to help me.”

  Vanessa stops in her tracks, slamming an arm against my chest. “Oh no, you didn’t? Like you’re going to do a let’s get it on tutorial?”

  “Please, no. This won’t be hands-on. More like mouths-on.” But that’s not the best analogy either. I backpedal. “I mean, we’re going to talk through some stuff. Go over a bunch of different options. Discuss what I might like and how to ask for it. It’s going to work out so perfectly. It’s like a dress rehearsal before a big show.”

  Perri clears her throat loudly. Deliberately. “You do know that a dress rehearsal means you go on stage and put on your costumes and go through all the motions?”

  “I do know that.” I smack her butt. “See? Isn't it better that I practice with hi
m rather than you?”

  She jumps away and gives me the side-eye. “Yeah, I don’t want you to spank me, sweetie. Unless you’re six two, inked, and built like a Greek god.”

  “And if you find that man, please share him,” Vanessa adds, but I flash back to last night and wonder if it’s a Greek god she wants or someone else—namely Perri’s brother.

  “How exactly does your sex school start?”

  “Last night we talked through things on my list, so that was essentially the first lesson.”

  “What’s the next lesson?” Perri asks.

  I tell them what Gabe and I have planned for this afternoon.

  “We've done that with you before,” Vanessa points out.

  “I know, but it will be interesting to go with a man and get the guy’s perspective.”

  “I bet perspective’s not the only thing Gabe wants to give you,” Vanessa says in a low voice.

  But she’s wrong. I’m not his type. That’s why I chose perfectly. This will be one week of learning, with no risk of crossing into the romance zone. We can safely stay friends and focus on my new sex-education syllabus.

  And I’m as ready as I’ll ever be for lesson number two.

  18

  Gabe

  It seemed like a good idea at the time.

  But now?

  Now I think I’m going to require a longer-than-usual run if I expect to survive sex toy shopping with Arden.

  I hate shopping.

  Wait, hate is too strong a word.

  I don’t detest anything.

  Except for drunk drivers, arsonists, and the designated hitter rule.

  Also, littering and broccoli.

  But those are all reasonable hates.

  Shopping is more like something I strive to avoid the same way I aim to dodge day-old bagels, warm beer, and community pools.

  But when you’re shopping for sex toys with a woman you want to screw, well, that requires a whole new approach.

  That’s why I run this morning alongside my cousin. I meet up with Tom, who recently moved to the neighboring town with his new woman, Finley. Tom’s a brainiac and a roller-coaster designer, so I ask him to tell me about his new projects.